Always just to the side and scarcely beneath the surface, the other Babbage.
Only steps away from a small gathering of Babbage’s better classes, this poor wretch of a woman makes the iced over space between a delivery of bricks and a building front, what appears to be her makeshift haven.
Covered in bloodied and dried lacerations she crouched, her speech seeming no more than that of those whose address is the asylum.
But makes her of farther note, and accounts for the distance maintained by the photographer, is the broken manacles still fasted to her wrists and ankles.
Who is she? Where is she from? And in light of our recent times, how has she been missed by the vigilant watchmen?